


you ask me what i'm thinking about

by ycnderes



Series: you can have my everything [3]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, brief descriptions of violence and death, getting back into the swing of writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-01-15
Packaged: 2019-10-10 15:03:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17428217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ycnderes/pseuds/ycnderes
Summary: Requested: "more soulmate strade pls?" and "can we get more soulmate Strade? I love their dynamic with the reader!"





	you ask me what i'm thinking about

**Author's Note:**

> _you ask me what I'm thinking about, I'll tell you that I'm thinking about, whatever you're thinking about_

Music plays, filtering through the car radio and evaporating into the hot desert air as the landscape passes by. You searched a bag earlier and managed to find a tank top, but even with that and a pair of shorts, you’re sweating. It’s nice. Dirt and sand stretch for miles in every direction, and there are mountains on the edge of the horizon. No air-conditioned house, no garage right beneath your feet; you feel like you can breathe for the first time in a long time.

Fingers thread through your own and you look at Strade. "Not fallin' asleep on me, are you?" He squeezes your hand tight for a second too long; you know he's just uncomfortable, it's early spring but the weather here is already too warm for him. The thought’s edges prick at your conscious, you shouldn’t feel so pleased about that.

"No," you rub your thumb across the back of his hand. "Just thinking."

He glances at you quick before looking back. "What about?"

The road curves and hot sun spills onto your side; you wish you could stay here, in this one spot, forever. "I'm really happy," you start to say. "Thank you for this, for..." For letting you leave the house? For bringing you so far away? For giving you a chance to feel the sun on your skin? 

How do you put that into words? How do you express gratitude when he’s the one who took those things away?

He smiles, all teeth and so wide. He’ll never understand what he’s done. "I knew you'd like it, kleiner hase, and this is just the beginning! We’ve still got another two weeks before -"

“Before we go back?” You interrupt.

“Yep!” He sounds excited, whether for the rest of this little road trip, or the thought of going back home, you’re not sure.

It is what it is. And you are happy, though you try not to think of what that means for your psyche, so you smile at him and shift so you can reach and kiss his cheek. His eyes leave the road as he turns to capture you into a more clinging kiss. It doesn’t last more than two seconds before he lets go, and it’s less than a moment, but you see a truck coming straight at the car, and you open your mouth to scream or cry -- and it hits.

\---

You can feel your body before you even wake up, aching in every bone and joint. Face down in the dirt, you try to focus on breathing, just like Strade taught you. Don’t scream, don’t panic, breathe. You shiver, and then realize you’re cold. You peel your eyes open, and you can see the night sky in your peripheral, the moon just coming up over the horizon.  _ Breathe _ .

Where’s Strade? You’re still alive, so he must be too. Testing your limbs, you inhale deeply and hold it, then exhale. That’s a good sign, nothing’s broken on either of you. You continue to breathe, to calm yourself down from the screaming breakdown you want to have, and listen. It’s cold, but you can hear the breeze, and the ground is solid underneath you. You carefully push yourself up and wait. Nothing. But you can see the car about five feet away; it looks… rough. The front is nearly caved in, and the windows are broken leaving glass everywhere. Both of the doors are open, but you can’t remember at all how you got out of there and all the way over here.

You clench your fists and release. “Strade?” Your voice breaks halfway through, your mouth almost too dry to make words. There’s no reply,  _ why is there no reply _ , so you unsteadily, painfully, walk around the wreck.

It’s a mess. It didn’t even flip, from what little you remember, but everything’s been tossed around. Oh well. You keep walking and manage to circle the vehicle before needing another breather.

No Strade.

No truck either.

If it’d been a hit and run, where’s your soulmate? If they’d done it specifically for kidnapping purposes, why leave you? It doesn’t make sense.

The moon is full in the sky before you finish checking the surrounding area, rechecking the car, and grabbing some necessary supplies into a backpack. You find your phone up on the dashboard, of all places, and the screen is completely shattered. Strade’s phone is missing too, but it’s night, and you’re feeling terrible, so it could be right next to your foot and you’d never know.

What you do know is that you can’t stay here, in the middle of nowhere, You’re not a survivor, so your only option is to start walking. You look at the road and glance down both ways. The last place you’d passed was about a two-hour drive away, difficult, but you’d know exactly where to go. The next place you’d seen on the GPS was an hour away, but you’d looked at it probably a half hour before the crash.

So, what do you choose? You’re not even sure what you’re looking for. It didn’t look like a town, but all you’ll really need is a phone. You set the pack down and search through it until you find your knife. Throwing the pack back on, you look at the crash, knife in hand.

“Strade!” You yell.

You count down, listening for something, anything. And when there’s no reply, you start walking.

\---

There’s no way to tell the time, except for the moon slowly sinking down the sky, and you can’t read it as well as you’d like. Maybe it’s been an hour, maybe it’s been ten minutes…

No, it’s definitely been more than ten minutes.

You went in the direction you thought Strade would go in, if he woke up and decided to leave you behind. It could be the wrong direction, but you’re already committed to it. The moonlight is almost enough to see by, and you try to pay attention to where you’re stepping. And the asphalt hurts your feet but the dirt has loose gravel and other things and you’ve already tripped, so you stay on the asphalt as the bottom of your feet ache with every step.

It feels like a miracle when you finally see a light in the distance. It’s small, but maybe it’s a house? A parked car? It feels just as dangerous as being alone out here, and you can almost hear Strade telling you not to be stupid. But the cold has set in past your layers of clothes and you’re exhausted.

You walk and walk till you’re close enough until you can see it’s a truck. The same truck as earlier, but it's had a crash of its own. The truck is flipped, fallen into a small ravine to the side of the road. The lights are still on, and one of the sides is all messed up, probably from the earlier crash. Where’s the driver?

You walk closer, and then you hear it. A wet, sticky sound, like someone’s clearing their throat, but it doesn’t end. Fear shoots through your veins, and you grab your knife. You unsheath it quietly, but your hands are shaking so bad you almost drop it. You try to remember Strade’s lessons, but nothing is coming to mind except  _ breathe _ . Flattening yourself as close to the truck as you can, you count to five, ignore the rushing noise in your ears, you listen.

Someone is dying. It’s a horrible death, you’re sure of it. They’re drowning in their own blood from the sounds of it. And someone… someone is watching them die. It takes every bit of nerve in your body to look over the truck, and --

It’s Strade.

He’s sitting in the dirt, his own knife loose in his hands, watching what must’ve been the truck driver die.

“Str-Strade,” you can barely make it out of your mouth you’re so completely shaken.

Immediately, he turns towards you. “Oh! You’re here,” he grins at you, gesturing for you to come closer. “Look what I found!”

His eyes are intense and wild, bearing on you like he’s seeing straight through you. You don’t move, a sick feeling curdles in your gut. It feels too much like the earliest days of your relationship with him.

He laughs, a sharp, nearly hysterical sound, and stands up, dusting the dirt off on his pants. “Come here, now.” It’s an order. You step around the truck, now fully in front of him, the knife tight in your hands and in a ready position. He eyes the knife. “Are you afraid of me?”

“Strade, please,” you beg. “I was so afraid, why didn’t you wait for me?”

He stalks close, knife at his side, and comes close enough that your knife is resting against him. “Say that again,” he cups your face and squishes your cheeks slightly.

“Please.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “Tell me you’re afraid.” He moves closer, forcing your knife hard against him and you have to pull back.

Your voice trembles and tears start in your eyes. “I’m afraid, I’m scared, Strade, please, I’m so scared, please stop.”

For a moment, he does. Then he brings the knife up to your throat. “Say you love me.”

You can’t hesitate. “I love you.”

He watches you, waiting for… something. It doesn’t happen. Sunlight peaks over the horizon and he suddenly pulls you into a tight embrace. “I love you,” he breathes into your skin desperately, as if he hadn’t just threatened you.

You can’t forgive him, not with the body that lies nearby, not with the knives in both your’s and his hands, but you allow him to hold you. Sunlight bathes your face, and you close your eyes against the light.


End file.
